


carry you down

by bulletdart



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 03:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11889117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulletdart/pseuds/bulletdart
Summary: You don’t know if your loyalty is borne of respect or something deeper.Written for SASO2017 BR7: Free For All





	carry you down

**Author's Note:**

> slides into the almost empty ship tag. my city now

You experience victory together before you first experience loss.  
  
Tears fall hot and wet from your face, nearly as hot as the blood boiling beneath your skin, anger at your opponents, anger at your loss, anger at yourself. But not anger towards him. Never him.  
  
He brings your head gently to his chest and dabs at your tears with the collar of his jersey. He runs his hand through the hair he compliments so often, the edges of his bandages catching on errant strands of curly hair. He cups your chin in his hand, bringing your tear-stained face up to look into his.  
  
“Kirihara-kun,” he says, a reprimand laced with affection. You wait with bated breath for a slap that never comes. His hands are always gentle, far gentler than any of those of your old teammates. But you know that he doesn’t need to tug at your leash to get you to heel.  
  
You don’t know if your loyalty is borne of respect or something deeper.  
  
He pulls back and turns around, and you follow without a single signal from him. You wish, deep inside, that he would take your hand to lead you, that he would lace his fingers through yours. But you know that (for now) this half meter of space that separates you is necessary.  
  
He leads you back to the bleachers, back to where the rest of the national team is waiting in complete silence. He sits down and pats the bench next to him, and you bury your face into his shoulder, not wanting to see the looks of disappointment on everyone’s face, on Yukimura and Sanada’s faces. He slings an arm around your shoulder.  
  
“You lost control.” There’s an almost chilling lack of disappointment in his voice. “You let them hurt you. You hurt yourself.”  
  
You tilt your head upwards to look at him. He’s staring off at the courts, away from you.  
  
“Shiraishi?”  
  
“You know that I only want the best for you, right? And that means keeping you out of Devil Mode.” Your eyes twitch in irritation. He doesn’t have to explain things to you like you’re a child, like you’re that one particularly screechy first year on his team. He turns to look at you and smiles softly, squeezing your shoulder, and your annoyance evaporates.  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
_With your life._  
  


———

  
  
The red has faded from your eyes by the time you sit cautiously at the edge of your bed in your shared hotel room.. It would be good, they had said, to have the doubles partners bond like this. Marui and Kite share the adjacent suite, but you can never hear a single peep from their room, nor they from yours.  
  
Shiraishi sits across from you, crossing his left leg over his right.  
  
“You need to learn patience.”  _You need to learn loyalty_  goes unsaid. “I try my best to keep you in line—to keep you safe. But you also need to make an effort.” He stands up and crosses the gap between your beds. You tilt your head back to look up at him, as he looks down on you.  
  
“It would be a shame for something so beautiful to go to waste.”  
  
You pout. “You don’t need to try to butter me up every time you want me to do something.”  
  
He laughs and the warmth of it washes over you. “I don’t know about that. They do say that it’s better to rule through love rather than fear.”  
  
“Love?”  
  
“Yes,” he says, and he ruffles your hair again. “And you’re so cute anyways.”  
  
“Doesn’t matter if I’m cute if I can’t win games,” you scoff.  
  
“There’s more to life than tennis. This for instance.” He grabs your shoulders and pushes you back against your bed, continuing to stand over you. You sigh and sink back into the mattress, your hair spreading around your head like a halo.  
  
“You’re an angel.”  _His_  angel. Child of God or not, Shiraishi is your true saviour, and you are his apostle.  _One that he would be better off without_ , whispers a traitorous voice in the back of your mind. You push it away. He needs you after all, as surely as you need him, right?  
  
The voices in your mind are hushed as he leans over you, his shadow falling over you, blocking out the flickering lights of the hotel room. He strokes your face gently and the frayed edges of his bandages are rough against the smooth skin of your cheek.  
  
He closes the final gap between you (finally) and his lips are warm against yours. You lick into his lips and his mouth tastes richer than any wine. He pinches your cheek and pulls back, a string of saliva connecting you.  
  
“Patience,” he repeats simply.  
  
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and presses your lips together again chastely. You whine and squirm beneath him, desperate for more, and he pulls back again, laughing.  
  
“Adorable.” You blush a deep pink, so deep that it almost looks like you’re going to enter Devil Mode, and he pinches your cheek again. “You’re so easy to tease.”  
  
You start to whine in protest and he lays a finger against your lips. “This is all part of your training. You need to learn not to react to provocation.” He runs his finger down your chin, your neck, across your collarbone. “You need,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, “to learn how to resist temptation.”  
  
He pulls off of you and you whimper pathetically. You’ve played this game with him before, but you never know how far he’s going to go. You never know how far you want him to go.  
  
This time, though, he cuts the game too short for you, leaving you wanting.  
  
“Patience,” he reminds you as he walks away. He stops at the door to the bathroom and gestures for you to follow him. You stand up obediently.  
  
You don’t know if your loyalty is borne of respect or something deeper.  
  
But you think, later, as he wraps his bare arms around you in your bed, carrying you down to sleep, as your eyes close and darkness rises over your vision, that it doesn’t matter.  _You are his_ , you think, as you lace your fingers through his, and that is all that matters to you in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> .... i Love them. pleas etalk to me about them on [twitter](http://twitter.com/shirakaya)


End file.
